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The Cook's Secret Ingredient
Meg Maxwell


Stir two hearts…and let simmerPI Carson Ford believes the fortune-teller who promised his father a second great love was a fraud. He wants the fortune-teller's daughter, Olivia Hurley, to explain that to his dad. But the mystery ‘great love’ sounds very much like Olivia’s missing aunt; finding her just might be a journey to love for themselves!







Stir Two Hearts…And Let Simmer

Private investigator Carson Ford specializes in finding people. Yet his latest case has him stumped—he’s looking for a mystery woman who’s supposed to be his wealthy, widowed father’s “second great love.” But the pragmatic single dad knows that’s not how love works! This is an elaborate swindle…and it starts with the fortune-teller’s daughter.

All chef Olivia Mack can do is confirm that her late mother’s predictions were usually true. What she won’t admit is that she might know who the mystery woman is—or that she’s finding herself falling for the handsome, cynical Carson, not to mention his adorable son. She has always limited her “family gift” to her cooking. Now she just has to hope that her magic secret ingredient will lead to love…


“Did you let your father know that you’re looking for Sarah?”

A muscle worked in Carson’s jaw and he shifted. “I did.”

“And?” she prompted, sipping her coffee.

“He was a little too touched,” Carson said. “Even though I made it clear I’m not doing this to find his supposed second great love. I’m doing it to prove that he’ll feel absolutely nothing for this woman so he can go back to living his life.”

“What if he does feel something?” Olivia asked. “Yes, I know, power of suggestion, blah, blah, blah. But you can’t fake chemistry, a pull toward someone, a quickening of your pulse, an inexplicable draw.”

She knew because she felt it with Carson. She couldn’t stop stealing peeks at him—the strong profile, the broad shoulders, the muscular thighs.

“It would be pretty random for my father to meet some stranger and fall instantly in love. I have no doubt he’ll feel toward Sarah Mack the way he feels when he meets anyone. The earth won’t move.”

“What if it does?” she asked.

He looked at her, clearly frustrated. “It won’t.”

She couldn’t help a chuckle. “You sure are set in your ways.”

“You are, too.”

“Nope,” she said. “I’m open to possibility.”

* * *

Hurley’s Homemade Kitchen: There’s nothing more delicious than falling in love…


The Cook’s Secret Ingredient

Meg Maxwell






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


MEG MAXWELL lives on the coast of Maine with her teenage son, their beagle and their black-and-white cat. When she’s not writing, Meg is either reading, at the movies or thinking up new story ideas on her favorite little beach (even in winter) just minutes from her house. Interesting fact: Meg Maxwell is a pseudonym for author Melissa Senate, whose women’s fiction titles have been published in over twenty-five countries.


In dear memory of Gregory Pope.


Contents

Cover (#ua44f9dac-6e28-504f-9fe7-1efd96295e65)

Back Cover Text (#uf8083d5b-7d70-50c2-960a-2afc2cd32d53)

Introduction (#u7fc203eb-8a93-5772-a070-b67f05596416)

Title Page (#u461e1240-9401-580b-b3e5-6dae84608731)

About the Author (#ud124dd11-18af-5673-b24a-c337fcfbc0aa)

Dedication (#ufd1f7d21-41a6-510a-a833-b3b41e426870)

Chapter One (#ub035c135-d1d4-5aa8-8cf3-ab8973c3b18c)

Chapter Two (#u4bf86ac1-44e3-5f8b-aaed-dd106f9075b1)

Chapter Three (#u2b8a6007-0cf0-5974-8d53-b878a576e271)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_41693643-2349-5ee5-b482-89b0d2da88fc)

Olivia Mack added a generous sprinkle of powdered sugar to the chocolate-dipped cannoli and then handed it through Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen’s food-truck window to the waiting customer. Would the confection work its magic? Of course it would. Olivia’s food—from blueberry pancakes to fried chicken to lemon chiffon pie—had been lifting spirits for as long as Olivia had been cooking, which was since girlhood. According to her mother, Olivia had a gift. Supposedly her food changed moods, healed hearts, restored hope.

Come on. Olivia hardly believed that. Comfort food comforted; it was right there in the name. If you were feeling down, a plate of macaroni and cheese did its job. And a chocolate-dipped cannoli with a sprinkling of powdered sugar? How could it not bring about a smile? Nothing magic about that.

Sorry if you don’t like it, but you have a gift, same as I do, same as all the women on my side of the family, her mother had always said. Miranda Mack passed away just over a month ago, and Olivia still couldn’t believe her larger-than-life mother was gone.

“Did you add chocolate chips to one end and crushed pistachios to the other like I asked?” Penny Jergen snapped from the other side of the food-truck window as she inspected the cannoli, her expression holding warring emotions. Olivia could see anger, pain, humiliation and plenty of heartbreak in Penny’s green eyes.

Which had Olivia refraining from rolling her own eyes at Penny’s usual rudeness. “Sure did.” As you can clearly see.

Barely mustering a thank-you, Penny carried the cannoli in its serving wedge over to the wrought iron tables and chairs dotting the town green just steps from the food truck. Olivia watched Penny stare down the young couple at the next table who were darting glances at her, then sit, her shoulders slumping. Olivia felt for Penny. The snooty twenty-six-year-old local beauty pageant champ wasn’t exactly the nicest person in Blue Gulch, but Olivia knew what heartbreak felt like.

Everyone in town had heard through the grapevine that Penny had caught her brand-new fiancé of just one week in bed with her frenemy, who’d apparently wanted to prove she could tempt the guy away from Miss Blue Gulch County. Ever since, Penny had walked around town on the verge of tears, head cast down. A barista at the coffee shop, Penny had handed Olivia her iced mocha that morning with red-rimmed eyes, her usually meticulously made-up face bare and crumpling. Olivia had been hoping Penny would stop by the food truck so Olivia could help a little. This afternoon she had.

As Olivia worked on a pulled-pork po’boy with barbecue sauce for her next customer, a young man with a nervous energy, as though he was waiting for news of some kind, she eyed Penny through the truck’s front window. Penny bit into the cannoli, a satisfied ah emanating from her. She took another bite. As expected, Penny sat up straighter. She took another bite and her teary eyes brightened. Color came back to her cheeks. She slowly ate the rest of the cannoli, sipped from a bottle of water, then stood up, head held high, chin up in the air.

“You know what?” Penny announced to no one in particular, flipping her long blond beachy waves behind her shoulders. “Screw him! I’m Penny Jergen. I mean, look at me.” She ran her hand down her tall, willowy, big-chested frame. “That’s it. Penny Jergen is done moping around over some cheating jerk who didn’t deserve her.” With that she left her balled-up, chocolate-dotted napkin on the table and marched off in her high-heeled sandals.

Olivia smiled. Penny Jergen, like her or not, was back to her old self. Presto-chango—whether Olivia liked her ability or not. The moment Penny had ordered the cannoli, chocolate chips on one end, crushed pistachios on the other, Olivia had instinctively known the extra ingredient the dessert had needed: a dash of “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair.” A person couldn’t get over heartbreak so fast—Olivia knew that from personal experience. But Olivia’s customers’ moods and facial expressions and stories told her what they needed and that telling infused the ingredients of their orders with...not magic, exactly, but something Olivia couldn’t explain.

Her mother used to argue with her over the word magic all the time, going on and on about how there was magic in the world, miracles that couldn’t be explained away, and Olivia would be stumped. All she knew for sure was that she believed in paying attention: watching faces, reading moods, giving a hoot. If you really looked at someone, you could tell so much about them and what they needed. And so Olivia put all her hopes for the person in her food and the power of positive thinking did its thing.

This was how Olivia tried to rationalize it, anyway. Special abilities, gifts, whatever you wanted to call it—she just wasn’t sure she believed in that. Even if sometimes she stayed up late at night, trying to explain to herself her mother’s obvious ability to predict the future. Olivia’s obvious ability to restore through her food. It was one thing for Olivia to fill a chocolate cannoli shell with cream and sprinkle it with powdered sugar while thinking positively about female empowerment and getting over a rotten fiancé. It was another for those thoughts to actually have such a specific effect on the person eating that cannoli.

You have a gift, Olivia’s mother had repeated the day she passed away. My hope is that one day you’ll accept it. Don’t deny who you are. Denial is why—

Her mom had stopped talking then, turning away with a sigh. Olivia knew she’d been thinking about her sister, Olivia’s aunt, who’d estranged herself from Miranda and Olivia five years earlier. If her aunt had a gift, Olivia had never heard mention of it.

She forced thoughts of her family from her mind; she couldn’t risk infusing her current customer’s order with her own worries. She had to focus on him. She turned around and glanced at the guy, early twenties, biting his lower lip. He was waiting for a job offer, Olivia thought. Her fingers filling with good-luck vibes, she added the delicious-smelling barbecue sauce to his pulled-pork po’boy, wrapped it up and handed it to him through the window. She loved knowing that in about fifteen minutes, he’d have a little boost of confidence—whether or not he got the job.

And she wasn’t in denial of who she was. Gift or no gift, Olivia knew exactly who she was: twenty-six, single and struggling to find her place now that her world had shifted. Until a week ago she’d been a caterer and personal chef, making Weight Watchers points-friendly meals for a few clients, gluten-free dishes for two other clients, and creating replicas of favorites that Mr. Crenshaw’s late wife used to cook for him. She would never quit on her clients; she knew the effect her food had on them, but spending so much time alone in the kitchen of her tiny house, after having her heart broken and losing her mother, she’d needed something, something new, something that would get her outside and interacting with people instead of just with her stove.

And then Essie Hurley, who owned the popular restaurant Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen, had called, asking if Olivia, who she often hired to help out in the kitchen for big events, had any interest in running Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen’s new business venture—the food truck. Olivia hadn’t hesitated. Two other cooks at Hurley’s would split the shifts, so Olivia was on three days a week from 11:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., and two days from 3:30 p.m. to 7:30 p.m. That left lots of time for her to cook at home for her clients and make her deliveries. The Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen food truck was parked several blocks down from the restaurant and business was bustling, the residents of Blue Gulch coming back time and again. Because—if she said so herself—she was a good cook. She really would like to think that was all there was to it. Good food, comforting food, delicious food, made people happy. End of story.

Olivia glanced out the window, grateful there was no one waiting and that she could take a break and have a po’boy herself. She was deciding between roast beef and grilled chicken when she realized that the stranger who’d been standing across the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop was still there, still watching her. At first she’d thought he was reading the chalkboard of menu items hanging from the outside of the food truck. But for twenty minutes?

And he didn’t look particularly happy. Every time she caught his eye, which was every time she looked at him, he seemed to be glaring at her. But why? Who was he? Blue Gulch was a small town and if a six-two, very attractive man had moved in, Olivia would have heard about it from the grapevine. People chatted at the food-truck window as they passed the time until their orders were ready. Sometimes they talked out loud to her, sometimes she just heard snippets of conversation.

Olivia couldn’t remember ever seeing the guy before. He stood to the side of the door of Blue Gulch Coffee in his dark brown leather jacket and jeans and cowboy boots, his thick brown hair lit by the sun, a large cup of coffee in his hand.

Just as she decided on grilled chicken with pesto-dill sauce, he walked up to the food truck. Whoa, he was good-looking. All that wavy chestnut-brown hair, green-hazel eyes, a strong nose and jawline and one dimple in his left cheek that softened up his serious expression a bit. Late twenties, she thought, unable to stop staring.

“May I help you?” Olivia asked, her Spidey senses going on red alert. This guy was seriously pissed off at something—and that something was her. Could you be angry at someone you’d never met? She tried to read him, to feel something, but her usual ability failed her.

He glared at her. “I’ll have a sautéed-shrimp po’boy. Please.”

She could tell that he’d struggled to add the please. “Coming right up.”

He waited a beat, his eyes narrowed, then he glanced inside the truck, clearly trying to look around. For what?

She got to work, adding the shrimp, coated with her homemade Cajun seasoning, into the frying pan, and realized she was getting absolutely nothing from him. No vibe, other than his anger. But suddenly, a feeling came over Olivia, a feeling she usually didn’t have to think so hard about. He was worried about someone, she realized. She had no idea who or why or what. She only knew the anger was masking worry.

She dared a peek at him. He stood to the side of the window, staring at her, his expression unchanged. Is he worried about a relative? The thought flitted out of her head as quickly as it had come in. She wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t read minds. But sometimes a thought would drift inside her like smoke, sometimes so fleetingly she couldn’t grasp it.

She slathered each side of the French roll with the rémoulade of mustard and mayonnaise and horseradish sauce, then layered the sautéed shrimp and added tomato slices and onion. She could feel “it’ll be okay” sparking from her fingers, infusing the po’boy.

She handed him the yellow cardboard tray holding his sandwich. He nodded and thanked her, then moved a few feet over to a pub table that lined the edge of the grass.

He shot another glare her way, then glanced left and right, up and down Blue Gulch Street. Was he waiting for someone? Watching for something? He’d been eyeing the truck for at least twenty minutes. He took a bite of the po’boy and she could tell, at least, that he liked the sandwich. He took another bite. No change in his expression. Then another. Still no change.

He appeared at the window. Same expression. Same glare.

The sautéed-shrimp po’boy hadn’t worked on him. According to the man’s face, it most certainly was not going to be okay.

Huh. That was weird. And a first, really.

“Are you the daughter of Miranda Mack?” he asked.

She stiffened. “Yes,” she said, wondering what this was about.

He looked around the inside of the narrow truck before his hazel eyes settled back on her. “So you just serve po’boys and cannoli out of the truck? Not fortunes, too?”

Did he want his fortune told? Olivia didn’t get that sense from him at all. “I’m not a fortune-teller. Just a cook.”

He stared at her. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you could settle a family problem your mother caused.”

Uh-oh. She’d been here a time or two or three or four over the years. Sometimes her mother’s predictions upset her clients or their families, and when pleading with Miranda hadn’t helped, they’d come to Olivia, asking her to intervene, hoping she could convince her mother to change the fortune or “see” something else.

He stepped closer. “Your mother told my father a bunch of nonsense about the second great love of his life, and now he’s traveling all over Texas to find this woman. I’d appreciate it if you could put an end to this...ridiculousness.”

Oh, boy.

“Mr....” she began, stalling.

“My name is Carson Ford.”

Olivia knew that name. Well, not Carson, but Ford. Her mother had mentioned a Ford. Edward or something like that.

“My father is Edmund Ford,” he said, lowering his voice. “Suffice it to say he’s a bigwig at Texas Trust here in Blue Gulch. He’s also a vulnerable widower. Your mother told him that his second great love is a hairstylist named Sarah with green eyes. He’s now racing around to every hair salon in the county asking for Sarahs with green eyes. People are going to think he’s nuts. He’s had seven haircuts in the past two weeks.”

Oliva froze. Hair salon. Sarah. Green eyes. That could only be one person.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “She filled you in on this scam?”

Olivia bit her lip. Her aunt, her mother’s sister who’d gotten into a terrible argument with Miranda five years ago and hadn’t been seen or heard from since, was named Sarah. And a hairstylist. With green eyes.

What the heck was this? Oh, Mom, what did you do?

He waited for her to respond, but when she didn’t, he said, “Look, will you please talk some sense into my father? Explain that your mother ran a good game, a scam, fed people what they wanted to hear for lots of money. My father can go back to his normal life and I can focus on my own. This is interfering with my job and people are counting on me.”

She felt herself bristle at the word scam, but she ignored it. For now. “What is your job?” She hadn’t meant to ask that, but it came tumbling out of her mouth.

“I’m a private investigator. I specialize in finding people who don’t want to be found—mostly of the criminal and/or fraudulent variety,” he added with emphasis.

She stepped back, not expecting that. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say he did for a living, but private investigator wasn’t it. Actually, she’d been thinking lawyer. Shark, at that.

She herself had thought about hiring a private investigator to find her aunt when her own online searches had led nowhere. Suffice it to say, to use his own phrase, that Carson Ford would not be interested in helping to locate this particular Sarah. “My mother is not a criminal or a fraud.” And she’s gone, she thought, her heart pinching.

He didn’t respond. He just continued to stare at her as if waiting for her to give something away with her expression, catch her in a lie. This man clearly also paid attention to people; it was his job to do so. She would have to be careful around him.

Wait a minute. No, she did not. Her mother’s business was her mother’s business. Olivia had no secrets, nothing to hide about Miranda Mack.

Her mother’s face, her dark hair wound into an elegant topknot affixed with two rhinestone-dotted sticks, her fair complexion, her long, elegant nose, her penchant for iridescent silver jewelry and long filmy scarves all came to mind. Olivia ached for the sight of Miranda. What she would give for one more day with her mother, another hug.

Despite their differences, Olivia missed her mother so much that tears crept up on her constantly. In the middle of the night. When she was brushing her teeth. While she was making her mother’s favorite meal, pasta carbonara with its cream and pancetta, the only thing that could comfort Olivia lately when grief seized her. And guilt. For how Olivia had always dismissed her mother’s surety that Olivia had a gift. Or that Miranda, the most sought-after fortune-teller in town—in the county—had had a gift, either. A crystal ball and some floaty scarves and deep red lipstick and suddenly her mother turned into Madam Miranda behind garnet velvet curtains. People liked the shtick, her mother had insisted. Olivia would say that three quarters of the town’s residents believed that Miranda had been the real deal. A quarter had rolled their eyes. Olivia was mostly in the latter camp with a pinkie toe in the former. How to make sense of all her mother’s predictions coming true?

Like the one about Olivia’s own broken heart. A proposal that would never come from her long-term boyfriend. He’s not the one, Miranda had insisted time and again, shaking her head.

“My mother passed away six weeks ago,” Olivia said, her own blindness, her losses and this man’s criticism all ganging up on her. “I won’t stand for you to disparage her.”

His expression softened. “I did hear about her death. I am very sorry for your loss.”

She could tell that part was sincere, at least.

And she’d been right, she thought as she glanced at him. He was worried about a relative. His father.

He cleared his throat. “My father is expecting me for dinner tonight at his house. If you could come and talk some sense into him, I’d appreciate it.”

What? No. No. No. He was inviting her to dinner at his father’s house? To talk the man out of looking for this second great love? Who, according to Miranda, was very likely Olivia’s aunt.

A woman her mother had been estranged from for five years. Had her mother “known” that this prediction would lead the man’s son, a private investigator, to get huffy and intervene? That it would bring Sarah Mack home? If it brought Aunt Sarah home.

Olivia had never known her mother to do anything for her own gain. Never. If Miranda had told Edmund Ford that his second true love was a hairstylist named Sarah with green eyes, then her mother absolutely believed that to be true. Aunt Sarah or no Aunt Sarah.

“I—I...” She had no idea how to get out of this, or what she could possibly say anything to his father about his fortune. “My mother believed in her gift. Her fortunes came true eighty-five percent of the time.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know all about the power of suggestion.”

So did Olivia. And she also knew how badly her mother wanted Olivia to find Aunt Sarah. On the day of her death, Miranda had told Olivia she’d written a letter to her sister and that it was her dying wish that Olivia give it to Sarah along with a family heirloom, a bracelet passed down from their mother. Over the past six weeks, Olivia had tried to find Sarah by doing internet searches, but all her leads were for the wrong Sarah Mack. She’d even searched for Sarah Macks in hair salons in the surrounding counties and had come up empty, too. No wonder Edmund Ford hadn’t been able to find her. No one could.

Maybe she should tell Carson Ford he didn’t have to worry, that it was doubtful his father would ever find his “second great love.”

“I’m surprised your father hasn’t asked you to find her,” Olivia said, wiping down the window counter. “I mean, there must be hundreds of green-eyed hairstylists named Sarah in the state of Texas. No last name, nothing else to go on?” she asked, fishing. It was possible that Edmund Ford’s second great love wasn’t Sarah Mack. There likely were hundreds of green-eyed hairstylists named Sarah in Texas.

He stepped closer to the window, bracing his hands on the sides of the wooden counter. “First of all, my father did ask me to help. But come on. How would trying to find this woman actually help my father? It’s a wild-goose chase and nonsense. Second of all—” He stopped, as if realizing he was about to disclose personal family business to a stranger. He cleared his throat again. “There was one more thing,” he added. “My father asked your mother how he’d know for sure which green-eyed hairstylist named Sarah was his predicted love. Your mother said he would know her instantly, but that she would have a small tattoo of a hairbrush and blow-dryer on her ankle.”

So much for the possibility that Miranda hadn’t been talking about Sarah Mack. Olivia was twelve when her aunt had gotten that tattoo. The brush was silver and the blow-dryer hot pink, Aunt Sarah’s favorite color.

“I’m not sure what I could possibly do or say to help you, Carson. I’m not a fortune-teller. I don’t know how my mother’s ability worked. If she said that his great love was this green-eyed tattooed hairstylist named Sarah, then she truly believed it. And like I said, her predictions were right most of the time.”

He grimaced. “Oh, please. I don’t believe that. I don’t believe any of it.”

Olivia didn’t want to, either. But evidence was walking around all over town in the form of couples her mother had brought together or people who’d changed their lives because of what Miranda had predicted. “She was responsible for over three hundred marriages. She directed people to their passions, stopped them from making mistakes. Sometimes they listened, sometimes the heart wants what it wants even when a fortune-teller says it won’t happen.”

He scowled, then pulled out a checkbook from an inside pocket. “I’ll pay you for your time. One hour, two tops, for you to talk some sense into my father. Five thousand ought to do it.”

Five thousand dollars. Man, she could use that money. And she felt for Carson, she really did. “It’s not about the money, Carson. It wasn’t for my mother, either. I know that’s hard for you to believe, but it’s true.”

He put away the checkbook. He tilted his head back, frustration and worry etched on his handsome face. She could feel it all over him, swirling in the air between them. “Please,” he said. “My father hasn’t been the same since my mother died five years ago. He’s so...vulnerable. I know he’s terribly lonely. I don’t know what made him seek out your mother—if he sought out your mother—”

“My mom didn’t lure clients to her,” Olivia said gently. “She didn’t need to. She had an excellent reputation. People came to her.”

He scowled. “Edmund Ford would not go walking into some fortune-teller’s little velvet-curtained room. He must have been led by something or fed some lies. Your mother ensnared him and then filled his head with nonsense. I can only imagine how much he paid her. My father, as I’m sure you know, is a very wealthy man. Making fraudulent claims, taking money from vulnerable people—that is against the law.”

Anger boiled in Olivia’s belly. “My mother was not a criminal! How dare you imply—”

“Dada!”

Olivia stuck her head farther out the window at the sound of the little voice. She watched a toddler, no older than two, run to Carson, who kneeled down, his arms wide, a big smile suddenly on the man’s face. All traces of his anger were gone.

He wrapped the child in his arms and scooped him up. The little boy pointed at a picture on the food truck’s menu, probably one of the cannoli.

“I have cookies for you at home,” Carson said, giving him a kiss on his cheek.

A woman in her fifties, who Olivia recognized from around town, approached wheeling a stroller, and Carson smiled at her. “I’ll take him from here,” he told her. “Thanks for taking such good care of him, as always.”

“My pleasure, Carson,” she said. “I’m happy to babysit for as long as you’re in town. See you tomorrow, sweetie,” she added to the little boy, ruffling his hair before turning to walk away.

“Bye!” the boy called and waved.

“Your son?” Olivia asked, noting that Carson wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She smiled at the adorable child. “He looks just like you.”

He nodded. “He’s eighteen months old. Daniel is his name. Danny for short.”

She wondered where Danny’s mother was. Was Carson divorced? Widowed? Never married the little one’s mother? It was possible. Olivia’s mother hadn’t married Olivia’s father or anyone else. Her aunt Sarah had never married. Now Olivia was following in the family tradition.

Danny tilted his head, his big hazel eyes on his father. “Chih-chih tates?”

Carson smiled and pulled an insulated snack bag from the stroller basket. He unzipped it and handed the boy a cheddar cheese stick. “How about some cheese for now and then yes, in just a couple of hours we’ll be going to Granddaddy’s house for your favorite—roast chicken and potatoes with gravy.” He glanced at Olivia. “Chih-chih tates is toddler speak for chicken and potatoes.”

Danny grinned and munched his cheese stick. The boy was so cute that Olivia wanted to sweetly pinch his big cheeks.

Carson put the snack bag away and shifted the toddler in his arm. “One hundred Thornton Lane,” he said to Olivia. “Six thirty. Please come. Please,” he added, his eyes a combination of intensity, pleading, worry and hope.

Yes, please come and talk my father out of finding the woman he’s meant to be with, the very woman Olivia had been searching for six weeks so she could fulfill her promise to her mother.

Oh, heck, she thought. What was she supposed to do? She wasn’t about to tell the Fords that the woman in question was her aunt. But how could she not? And she certainly did understand Carson’s concern for his dad. But what if her mother was right about Edmund and Sarah?

What if, what if, what if. The story of Olivia’s life.

Not that Carson was waiting for an answer. He was already heading down the street, holding the toddler in one arm, pushing the stroller with the other. The boy’s own little arms were wrapped around Carson’s neck. His son sure loved him. That feeling swirled inside Olivia so strongly it obliterated all other thought.

Six thirty. One hundred Thornton Lane. She knew the house. A mansion on a hill you could see from anywhere on Blue Gulch Street. At night the majestic house was lit up and occasionally you could catch the thoroughbreds galloping or grazing in their acres of pasture. Sometimes over the past few weeks, when Olivia felt at her lowest, missing her mother so much her heart clenched, she’d look up at the lights of One Hundred Thornton and feel comforted somehow, as though it was a beacon, the permanence of the grand house high on the hill soothing her.

She didn’t know what she could possibly say to Edmund Ford that his tightly wound, handsome son would approve of. But at least Olivia knew what she was doing for dinner tonight.


Chapter Two (#ulink_fa8f8ca9-c36b-54a8-a963-3ee18263be87)

Carson stood by the open window in his father’s family room, watching his dad and Danny in the backyard. Fifty-four-year-old Edmund Ford held the toddler in his arms and was pointing out two squirrels chasing each other up and down the huge oak. Carson smiled at the sight of his son laughing so hard.

“Let’s pretend we’re squirrels and chase each other around the yard,” Edmund said, setting Danny down. “You can’t catch me!” he added, running ahead at a toddler’s pace, which couldn’t be easy for the six-two man.

“Catch!” Danny yelled, giggling.

Edmund let his back leg linger for a moment until Danny latched on. “You got me! You’re the fastest squirrel in his yard.”

“Me!” Danny shouted, racing around with his hands up.

Edmund scooped him up and put him on his shoulders, and they headed over to the oak again. Danny pointed at the squirrels sitting on a branch and nibbling acorns. Carson could hear his dad telling Danny that the squirrels were a grandpa and grandson, just like them.

Who was this man and what had he done with Carson’s father? Carson’s earliest memories involved watching his father leave the house, his father’s empty chair and place setting at the dinner table, his father not making it to birthday parties or graduations or special events. He’d been a workaholic banker and nothing had been more important than “the office.” Not Carson, not his mother, not even his mother’s terminal diagnosis of cancer five years ago, leaving them just four months with her. But then came the moment she’d drawn her last breath, and Edmund Ford had been shaken.

I didn’t tell her I loved her this morning, his father had said that day they’d lost her, his face contorted with grief and regret. I always thought there was later, another day. I didn’t tell her I loved her today.

Tears had stung Carson’s eyes and he gripped his father in a hug. She knew anyway, Dad, he’d said. She always knew.

Which was true. Every time Edmund Ford disappointed them, his mother would say, Your father loves us very much. We’re his world. Never doubt that, no matter what.

Carson had grown up doubting that. But since his mother died, his father had changed into someone Carson barely recognized. Edmund Ford had started calling to check in a few times a week. He’d drop by Carson’s office for an impromptu lunch. He’d get tickets to the Rangers or the rodeo. But instead of Carson’s old longing for his dad to be present in his life, Carson had felt...uncomfortable. He barely knew his father, and this new guy was someone Carson didn’t know at all. Suddenly it was Carson putting up the wall, putting up the boundaries.

Then Danny was born, and Edmund had become grandfather of the year. The man insisted on weekly family dinners with Carson and Danny, making a fuss over every baby tooth that sprouted up, new words, a quarter inch of height marked on the wall. And yes, Carson was glad his son had a loving grandfather in his life. But Carson couldn’t seem to reconcile it with the man he’d known his entire life.

The first week of Danny’s life, when his now ex-wife, Jodie, had still been around, they’d both been shocked when Edmund Ford had come to the hospital’s neonatal intensive care unit every single day, to sit beside his bassinet and read Dr. Seuss to him, sing an old ranch tune, demand information from the doctors in his imperious tone.

“Grandparenting is different from being a parent,” Jodie would say with a shrug when Carson expressed his shock over his dad’s suddenly interest in family.

She must have been right because by the end of Danny’s first week, she was gone, with apologies and “you knew I was like this when you married me,” and his father was there. And everything that seemed normal about the world had shifted.

His father’s housekeeper and cook, Leanna, came into the room and smiled at Carson, then walked over to the screen door to the yard. “Danny, want to help me make dessert?”

“Ooh!” Danny said. His grandfather set him down and he came running in.

The sixtysomething woman, with her signature braided bun, scooped up Danny and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Carson loved how much sweet attention his son got at his grandfather’s house. “Twenty minutes ’til dinner,” Leanna called out before heading through the French doors with Danny.

Carson glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the room. If he craned his neck he could just make out the circular driveway in front of the mansion. No car, other than his own. He wondered if Olivia Mack would show up or not. Probably not.

“I could cancel my health club membership with all the exercise I get from playing with Danny,” Edmund said as he came inside. He took a long sip from his water bottle, then sat down in a club chair and pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Oh, Carson, I won’t be around tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be on the road, checking out four potential hair salons for my Sarah.”

Enough was enough. “Dad—”

Edmund held up a palm. “Well, it’s what I have to do since my own son, a private investigator, won’t do his job and help me find the person I’m looking for.”

Carson crossed his arms over his chest. And sighed. “The person you’re looking for doesn’t exist, Dad.”

Edmund shook his head. “We’ve been over this. I’m done arguing with you. I’m just telling you I won’t be around tomorrow in case Danny wanted to see the more fun Ford man in his life.”

His father was the fun one. Unbelievable. He shook his head, staring at his dad as though the concentration would help him come up with a way to reach the man, get to him to see how foolish and fruitless this quest was. And how potentially damaging. Edmund Ford was a handsome man, tall and fit, with thick salt-and-pepper hair adding to his distinguished appearance. And he was very, very wealthy. This Sarah, if he found someone who fit the bill, would latch on to him fast enough to get her hands on his bank account, then take off. She’d probably get herself pregnant, too, to keep the gravy train going for quite some time. Yes, Carson was that cynical.

The doorbell rang and Carson perked up. He glanced at the grandfather clock across the room. Not quite six thirty. Could it be the fortune-teller’s daughter? Had she come?

Lars, Leanna’s husband of thirty-two years and his father’s butler for the past five years, appeared in the doorway. “A Ms. Olivia Mack is here.” A short, portly man in his sixties, Lars always stood very straight in his formal uniform.

“Olivia Mack?” Edmund repeated. “Do I know an Olivia Mack? Is she selling something? I wouldn’t mind a couple boxes of those mint Girl Scout cookies.”

“I invited her,” Carson said. “Show her in, will you, Lars?”

Edmund stood and wiggled his eyebrows at Carson. “You invited her? Finally dating? You definitely need a woman in your life.”

“Not dating,” Carson said. “I’m busy with raising my son and working.”

Edmund rolled his eyes. “Your son is asleep fourteen hours a day. And you don’t work twenty-four hours. You have time for romance, Carson.”

Carson wasn’t having this discussion. Luckily, the French doors opened and Lars presented Olivia Mack.

Carson had only had a head-and-shoulders view of Olivia inside the food truck. He’d had no idea she was so tall and curvy. She wore a weird felt skirt with appliqués of flowers, a light blue sweater and yellow-brown cowboy boots. Her hair, which had been up in the food truck, now tumbled loosely down her shoulders in light brown waves. A ring, bearing a turquoise heart on her thumb, seemed to be her only jewelry. Did people wear rings on their thumbs? Fortune-tellers probably did.

Olivia glanced back as Lars shut the doors behind her. She turned to Carson and offered an uncomfortable smile.

“Dad,” Carson said, dragging his gaze off Olivia. “This is Olivia Mack, Miranda Mack’s daughter.”

Edmund Ford stepped toward Olivia. “Miranda Mack, Miranda Mack,” he repeated. “Is she a loyal customer at Texas Trust? I’m sorry but the name isn’t ringing a bell.”

“Her mother was Madam Miranda,” Carson said. He couldn’t help but notice Olivia’s eyes cloud over. She was obviously still grieving over the loss of her mother. Six weeks was nothing. It had taken Carson a good year before he got used to the fact that his mother was gone, that he would never see her again.

“Oh, of course!” Edmund said, hurrying over to Olivia and wrapping her in a hug. “I’m so sorry about your loss, dear. Your mother changed a lot of lives for the better. I understand that I was her very last client before...” He cleared his throat. “She told me the second great love of my life is out there waiting for me to find her. I intend to do just that.”

“Actually, that’s exactly why Olivia is here,” Carson said. “To tell you you’re wasting your time and energy.”

Edmund frowned and turned to Olivia. “Is that right? Is that why you’re here?”

Olivia bit her lip and looked from Edmund to Carson and back to Edmund. “Mr. Ford—”

“Please call me Edmund.”

“Edmund,” she began, “my mother’s gift worked in mysterious ways. That’s all I know,” she added, glancing at Carson.

He grimaced at his son. “Carson begged you to come and tell me I’m wasting my time and energy on a wild-goose chase? Offered you a pile of money to make me see reason?”

“Well, he did, but I didn’t accept,” Olivia said. “He did also express how worried he is that you might be chasing after a fantasy that doesn’t exist. I can understand that. I suppose that’s why I’m here. To tell both of you that I don’t understand how my mother’s abilities worked. I do know that she brought together hundreds of couples. I also know there were times her predictions did not work out.”

“Well,” Edmund said, “I believed in her.”

Carson caught Olivia’s expression soften at that.

“Carson mentioned that you’ve been looking for the woman she told you about,” Olivia prompted.

“No luck so far,” Edmund said. “I’ve called around to a bunch of hair salons in the area, but most folks who answered the phone thought I was some nut and hung up on me. I visited several over the past two weeks, asking for a ‘Sarah who I heard was a great hairstylist,’ but most of the time, no Sarahs. The four times there was a Sarah, she didn’t have green eyes.” He let out a breath. “I guess this does sound kind of silly.”

“Romantic, though,” Olivia said on practically a whisper.

Carson frowned at her.

“I think so, too, young lady,” Edmund said, the gray cloud gone from his expression. “And I may be fifty-four, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a whiz with technology.” He pulled out his smartphone. “I’ve got a map of every hair salon in the county with digital pushpins of ones I’ve visited.” He held it up. “If there’s no green-eyed Sarah, I’ve marked it red. I’ve got nineteen salons to visit tomorrow in two counties.”

Carson rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What about the fund-raiser you’re supposed to speak at tomorrow? What about the board meeting to prepare for?”

“Carson, I’m your father. Not the other way around.”

“Dad, I—”

“Dinner is served,” Leanna sang from the doorway with Danny in her arms. “Danny helped make dessert.”

“Ert!” Danny called out.

“Dessert monster!” Edmund said, rushing over and tickling him and carrying him over his shoulder. Danny squealed with laughter.

This ridiculous quest to find this nonexistent green-eyed hairstylist was just another example of how much his father had changed, especially since Danny was born. For Danny’s sake, Carson liked the devoted, fun grandpa his formerly workaholic, bank-before-family father had become. But this silly search to find a gold digger masquerading as a predicted great love? No. Not on Carson’s watch.

He had about forty-five minutes to shift this conversation back his way. And Olivia Mack was his only hope of stopping his father from ruining his life.

* * *

In the biggest dining room that Olivia had ever been in, she sat across the huge cherrywood table from Carson. At the head sat Edmund Ford with little Danny in a high chair beside him. Watching grandfather and grandson did a lot to ease the tension that had settled in Olivia’s shoulders ever since she’d arrived. Edmund clearly adored the toddler, and baby talk—Who ate all his chi-chi? My widdle cuddlebomb did, that’s who! C’mre for your cuddlebomb!—was not beneath the revered banker. Olivia hadn’t known what to expect from Edmund Ford, but this warm, welcoming man was not it.

The three generations of Fords looked quite alike with their dark thick hair, though Edmund’s was shot through with a distinguished silver. The three shared the same intense hazel-green eyes.

“Edmund, how did you happen to become a client of my mother’s?” Olivia asked. She smiled up at Leanna, who walked around with a serving platter of roasted potatoes. As the woman put a helping on Olivia’s plate, she wondered what it would be like to live like this every day. Maids and butlers and a family room the size of the entire first floor of Olivia’s house.

“When I moved to Blue Gulch four years ago, a year after my wife passed,” Edmund said, “I would hear this and that about a Madam Miranda and didn’t give it a thought. To me, fortune-tellers were about crystal balls and telling people, for a fee, what they wanted to hear.”

“And you were right,” Carson said, fork midway to his mouth.

Edmund ignored that. “But then I overheard a few conversations that stayed with me,” he continued, taking a sip of his white wine. “A very intelligent young equity analyst at the bank was telling another employee that she went to see Madam Miranda about her previous job and whether she should dare quit without having another lined up first. Madam Miranda advised her to quit immediately because an old college friend who worked at Texas Trust would call about an opening there and she would apply, interview and be offered the job with a significant increase in pay. Oh, and she’d love working there. The analyst risked quite a bit by taking that advice. Three days later, an old college friend called. And the rest is history.”

Carson was doing that thing again where he rolled his eyes and shook his head. The double dismissive whammy.

“I would catch some stories like that,” Edmund said, “and I just sort of tucked them away, not having any interest in paying Madam Miranda a visit.”

“What changed your mind?” Olivia asked, taking a bite of the rosemary chicken. Mmm, that was good. So well seasoned. Olivia hadn’t had a meal she hadn’t cooked herself in a very long time.

“About two months ago, I overheard two young women talking in the coffee shop,” Edmund said. “I was waiting for my triple espresso, and I heard a woman say that Madam Miranda’s prediction for her had come true, that if she’d find the courage to break up with her no-good, no-account boyfriend, she’d find real love with a handsome architect whose first name started with the letter A.”

“Oh, come on,” Carson said, shaking his head.

Edmund kept his attention on Olivia. “The young woman went on to say she’d been dating the terrible boyfriend for two years but Madam Miranda’s prediction gave her something to hope for, even if it was silly and couldn’t possibly come true, despite being so specific. She dumped the guy, and three months later, she struck up a flirtation with a young man doing some work in the new wing of the hospital where she worked as a nurse. An architect named Andrew.”

Carson put down his wineglass. “Madam Miranda probably heard his firm would be working on the new hospital wing. She put the idea in the nurse’s head that she and this guy belonged together and voilà, instant interest when she might have otherwise ignored him.”

“Talk about far-fetched,” Edmund said to his son.

“I have a million of those stories,” Olivia said. “I’ve seen much of it firsthand. And my mother may have been a lot of things, but a liar or a cheat wasn’t among them.”

Carson put down his fork. “Right. So my father’s second great love is a stranger named Sarah standing in a hair salon giving some guy a buzz cut. Come on.”

“Why not?” Olivia asked. “Why isn’t that possible?”

Carson sighed. “Because it’s hocus-pocus. It’s nonsense. It’s make-believe. It gets people to pony up a pile of money for malarkey—and just like that nurse said, it gives hope where there’s none. It doesn’t mean a damned thing.”

“Watch your language,” Edmund said, covering Danny’s ears. The boy giggled.

“Larkey!” Danny shouted gleefully.

“How much did you pay the madam for this fantasy?” Carson asked his father. “Hundreds, no doubt, once she knew who you were.”

“I’ve told you at least three times that she refused to accept money from me,” Edmund said, taking a bite of his chicken. “She told me she thought my bittersweet story was deeply touching and that was payment enough.”

Olivia knew her mother often didn’t charge those who clearly couldn’t afford her services. But Edmund Ford was a zillionaire. His story really must have touched Miranda—or had her mother known that he was destined to become part of the family because of Aunt Sarah? Hmm.

“But,” Edmund continued, “considering that her fortune-telling parlor was inside her home, which was on the small side, a postage stamp, really, I left her a thousand dollars in cash anonymously. She deserved it.”

The head shaking was back. “Right, Dad. I’m sure that’s how she hooked, lined and sunk her wealthy clients, pretending to care, finding their pasts just so touching, and fully knowing they’d load up her mailbox with cash and gifts. Payment enough—ha.”

“Could you be more cynical?” Edmund said, once again covering little Danny’s ears and making the boy giggle.

“I’m not cynical, Dad. I’m realistic.”

“Who’s ready for desserty-werty?” Edmund said to Danny, kissing his soft little cheek. “I know I am!”

“Me!” Danny shouted.

Olivia glanced at Carson, who was brooding in his seat. She’d say for this round, each man had scored a point each. They both made sense.

Carson let out a breath and shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

Edmund stood and lifted Danny out of his high chair and set him down. “Sweets, why don’t you go play with your toys for a few minutes until Mrs. Hilliard brings out dessert.”

The boy went running for his toy chest, surrounded by brightly colored bean bags and low bookshelves.

“Right after I overheard that young lady telling her friend about finding true love,” Edmund said, “I started having all these strange feelings.” He glanced at Carson. “About wanting that for myself. I loved your mother, Carson. Very much. The last eighteen months especially, I’ve found myself changing, becoming very family-oriented when I wasn’t before.”

Carson glanced out the window, but Olivia could tell he was listening.

“After five years as a widow,” Carson continued, “with a new appreciation for loved ones, I found myself longing to find love again. And so I made an appointment with Madam Miranda to see what she might say about my chances.”

Carson let out a deep breath. “It’s not that I don’t want you to find love again, Dad. I just don’t want you to go on some crazy wild-goose chase and end up getting hurt by a gold digger.”

“I know you care, Carson,” Edmund said, his tone reverent. “And I appreciate that you do. But I believed Madam Miranda. I consider myself a pretty good judge of character and that woman looked me in the eye with truth.”

It was like a hug. After Carson’s criticism of her mother, after her own years and years of trying to find some rational explanation for her mother’s abilities, to hear her last client say this with conviction in his voice was like the warm hug that Olivia had needed for six weeks. Her only other family member—Aunt Sarah, very likely Edmund Ford’s second great love—was somewhere out there, long out of hugging distance.

“Will you stay for dessert?” Edmund asked her.

She took another glance at Carson. The man was scowling. His plan to have her derail his father’s belief in her mother’s fortune hadn’t exactly worked.

“I’d better get going. Thank you for dinner,” she said. “I’m so glad we got to meet.”

“Well, rest assured that I will make good on your mother’s prediction for me,” Edmund said. “I will find my green-eyed, hair-cutting Sarah.” Olivia smiled and he took both her hands in his. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Olivia. I know how it feels to lose someone you love so deeply.”

What a dear man he was. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you out,” Carson said between gritted teeth.

“Bye, Danny,” Olivia said, smiling at the toddler.

“Bye!” Danny said with a smile and a wave and his grandfather joined him in his toy area.

As she and Carson walked through the marble foyer and out the front door, Olivia could tell Carson was waiting until they were outside to let her have it for not backing him up. She could feel the tension in him.

But all he said, while looking around the circular drive, was “Where is your car?”

“I walked, actually. My car is almost fifteen years old and might not have made it up the hill to the drive.”

He seemed surprised. “I’ll walk you home. Let me just tell my dad and Danny I’ll be gone for a while.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I insist,” he said.

Now he’d have a half hour to give her an earful about how she’d messed up the one thing he wanted.

* * *

“I suppose you feel like I got to eat that amazing rosemary chicken and roasted potatoes and perfectly timed asparagus for nothing,” Olivia said as they headed down the hill toward town.

Carson raised an eyebrow and glanced at her, struck again by how lovely she was. She had a delicate, fine-boned face and her long light brown hair framed it in waves. The cool breeze blew her sweater against her full breasts and he found himself sucking in a breath at how sexy she was. Flower-appliqué felt skirt and yellow cowboy boots and all. He realized he was staring at her and glanced ahead at the twinkling lights in the distance, where the shops and restaurants of Blue Gulch Street were just winding down. How could he be attracted to her?

“Meaning, I don’t think your dad will give up on the quest to find this woman,” Olivia said.

“Well, I appreciated that you came and were fair,” Carson said. “It’s not like you were necessarily on either our sides.” He felt her looking at him. “And I don’t think he’ll give up, either. I’ve tried for two weeks now, ever since he first mentioned it to me. You were my last hope.”

“Two weeks? My mom’s been gone for six, and I know their appointment was just days before she passed away.”

“He said he tucked the fortune away, let himself really think about it, and then decided he was ready to see if it was possible, if there really could be a second great love out there.”

“Carson?” she said, darting a glance at him. “Is the reason you’re so against his trying to find the woman because of your mother?”

“My mother died five years ago. I don’t begrudge my father love or companionship. It’s the fortune-telling aspect that I have problems with.”

“My mom tried to keep a list of all the marriages she was responsible for. Her last count was three hundred twelve.”

Please. “I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t believe much,” she said.

That wasn’t true. He believed in a lot. In his love for his son. In doing his job and helping bring criminals to justice by tracking them down for the police. In the way Olivia Mack’s big brown eyes drew him, making him unable to look away from her face.

Olivia looked past him toward the beautiful horse pasture. The thoroughbreds weren’t out tonight. “Did you grow up in that house?” she asked.

“No, I grew up in Oak Creek.” A town over, Oak Creek was the fancy cousin of Blue Gulch, filled with estate ranches and mansions. “My father sold the family house a year after my mother died. He said the memories were killing him and he needed a fresh start and had always liked Blue Gulch with its quaint mile-long downtown.”

“Ah,” she said. “That’s why I haven’t seen you around. I think just about everyone in town has been to the food truck in the two weeks it’s been open.”

“I meant to tell you—the shrimp po’boy was pretty darn good. I have no doubt that word of mouth will bring in business from the surrounding towns.”

She smiled. “Thanks. My mother’s business worked that way, too. Word of mouth brought in client after client, just as it did with your dad. Relative and friends came in from neighboring states, too, for a chance to meet with Madam Miranda.”

“So tell me how this supposedly works. Your mother had this magic ability to predict the future but it wasn’t passed down to you?”

“According to my mother, all the women on her side of the family have a gift,” she practically mumbled.

“What number am I thinking of?” he asked.

She smiled. “I have no idea.”

“So what is your gift?” he asked.

“That’s a lovely tree,” she said, eyeing the weeping willow at the edge of the Ford property. She clearly didn’t want to talk about this.

He leaned toward her. “You can read minds. You can move objects with your eyes. You can make yourself invisible.”

She laughed. “None of the above. I’m not sure I want to talk to about it, Carson. I’ve struggled with believing it myself, but based on what I’ve seen with my own eyes, I seem to be able to affect people with my cooking.”

What? “Your cooking?”

She nodded. “Aside from running the Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen food truck during the week, I’m a personal chef. I seem to be able to change moods and lift hearts with my food.”

She glanced at him, and he tried to make his expression more neutral but the disappointment punching him in the stomach made that impossible.

“Not what you want to hear, I know,” she said. “But this is my family. This is me. I’m not saying I understand it or even want it, but I seem to have this...gift.”

He resumed walking, shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “You made me a shrimp po’boy. What effect did that have on me?”

“I don’t think any. Which is unusual.”

He was disappointed. For a moment there, despite everything, he’d felt drawn to this woman. But here she was, spouting the same nonsense her mother had. He wanted to walk away, but he wasn’t going to just abandon her in the evening on the sidewalk, even in very safe Blue Gulch. He’d been raised to be a gentleman.

So he’d play along. Maybe he’d trip her up, get her to admit how ridiculous the idea was. Lifting hearts with her food? Lord. “So how do you set this up? You offer customers a chance to turn their frown upside down for an extra five bucks?”

She shot him a glare. “Did I say one word to you when you ordered? No. I don’t charge extra. I just get a sense of what someone needs and I infuse the food naturally. Maybe an insecure person will get a boost of confidence. A hurting person will feel a bit stronger.”

“And a pissed-off man like me, worried about my father wasting his time and energy on some crazy fortune? Why didn’t the po’boy change my mood?”

She bit her lip and looked down at the ground. “I really don’t know.”

“Shocker.”

“You don’t have to be rude,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Right then, under the darkening sky, the combination of her hurt expression and how alone she seemed made him feel like a heel. “Sorry. I’m just...my father is new to me, Olivia. My whole life, until my mother died, my father was a stranger I barely saw. Work was the most important thing in his life. Now, he’s a different person. Kinder, interested in family, in people, in the community and world around him. I once thought he had no heart, and now he has too much heart. You see how he is with Danny.”

She tilted her head. “Can a person have too much heart? He’s wonderful with Danny. A dream grandpa.”

“All that extra heart means a lot more room to be hurt and easily swindled.” He stopped walking for a moment, struck by what he’d just said. He hadn’t realized how worried he was that his father would be hurt—not just swindled. The man who made Danny laugh and shout “yay!” whenever Carson mentioned they were going to see grandpa was not going to get that heart stepped on by a con artist.

“I think my mother meant every word of that fortune, Carson.”

Why was she so frustrating? Who cared if Madam Miranda believed in her phony “gift”? There was no such thing as predicting the future. There was probability and possibility and plain old-fashioned guesses. But there was no crystal ball. “Right, Olivia. So somewhere out there is a green-eyed woman named Sarah in a hair salon with some ridiculous blow-dryer tattoo. And she’s my supposedly my father’s second great love.”

Olivia nodded. She seemed about to say something, then looked away.

“Well, I’m not going to let my father go on some wild-goose chase and let some swindler snow my dad for his money. I finally have my dad. I’m not going to let him get hurt.”

“Or you could have a little faith, Carson Ford.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’d laugh but I don’t want to be rude again.”

She lifted her chin. “I live just down this street,” she said, pointing to Golden Way. “Please thank your father for his hospitality.” Then she stalked off.

He watched her walk to the second house on the left, a tiny yellow cottage with a white picket fence and a bunch of wind chimes. A black-and-white cat was sitting on the porch and wrapped around her legs, the yellow-brown cowboy boots. Olivia bent down and scratched the cat behind the ears, then picked it up and gave it a nuzzle before carrying it inside.

When the door closed, he felt strangely bereft, the lack of her so startling that he wanted to knock on the door and argue with her a little more just to be near her.

He had to clamp down on that feeling. He’d been through the wringer with his ex-wife and had no interest in feeling anything for a woman. Everything he had, all the mush and gush he had left, went to his son. Olivia Mack was likely in on her mother’s scam, though she did strike him as honest, and Carson considered himself a pretty good judge of character, of sizing someone up.

She wasn’t going to help dissuade his father from heartbreak and a big time-waster. Which meant he had to forget Olivia Mack and the way she got under his skin.


Chapter Three (#ulink_0c24edfd-95dc-5e39-9951-4b92f677f282)

By twelve thirty in the afternoon the next day, Olivia had sold thirty-seven po’boys and thirty-two cannoli. Not bad for an hour’s work. Being so busy in the food truck had taken her mind off a certain tall, sexy PI. She’d barely slept last night, tossing and turning as she thought about all Carson had said, all his father had said, her mother’s prediction, her aunt Sarah, who she missed terribly. Carson was a complicated man. The situation was complicated. But cooking wasn’t complicated at all. You followed a recipe and there you had it. Simple.

She stood at the cannoli station, which was a two-foot-long section of stainless-steel counter, and added a dusting of powdered sugar to a mini strawberry cannoli.

“Here you go,” she said to Clementine Hurley Grainger, who sat at the swivel stool at the tiny desk near the cab of the truck.

Twenty-five-year-old Clementine’s dark eyes lit up and she put down the stack of receipts she’d been going through. “Ooh, that looks amazing—thank you.” She took a bite. “Absolutely delicious!”

Among Olivia’s favorite words.

Clementine took another bite, then put down the cannoli. “I’m amazed by these receipts!” she said, picking up a few. “One order alone was for seven cannoli—and not even the lower-priced minis!”

Olivia smiled at her friend and one-quarter boss. Clementine’s grandmother, Essie Hurley, owned Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen, where Clementine was a waitress. Clementine had had the brilliant idea for the food truck while on a family honeymoon with her new husband, Logan Grainger, his twin three-year-olds and the foster daughter they were in the process of trying to adopt. On a road trip across Texas, everywhere they stopped there were brightly colored, inviting food trucks with long lines of customers. One family meeting later, some numbers crunched with Georgia Hurley—Clementine’s sister, who baked for the restaurant and handled the books—and creating the menu with Annabel Hurley—their other sister and the lead chef for the restaurant—and the food truck came into existence. Working with the three Hurley sisters and Essie to get the truck ready for business had given Olivia such purpose the past weeks.

“Mandy from the real estate office bought those,” Olivia said as she sautéed onions, celery and garlic for the next batch of pulled-pork po’boys. “She says they tend to put clients in signing mode.” And for the past week, one o’clock meant she’d have a line of hungry customers from Texas Trust, the employees at the coffee shop, plus the construction crew working on a house just around the corner that always ordered three po’boys per guy.

“We get compliments on your po’boys and cannoli all the time at the restaurant,” Clementine said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard people say, ‘I could be in the worst mood, have one of Olivia’s cannoli and suddenly have a skip in my step.’ Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. Gram is thrilled with the success you’ve made of the truck.”

“I’m so happy to hear that,” Olivia said. “I don’t know what I would have done without this new venture to focus on and throw myself into. I owe you and your sisters and grandmother everything.”

“We’re even, then,” Clementine said, taking another bite of her cannoli. “Ooh, hot construction workers coming your way,” she said, upping her chin at the group of six men walking toward the truck. Olivia laughed. “Well, I’d better get to work myself. See you later.”

By two o’clock, Olivia had made over a hundred po’boys and seventy-five cannoli, which was up since she’d started offering the mini cannoli.

“Excuse me, but I was here first!” a grumpy female voice snapped.

“Actually I was, but please, go ahead,” responded a familiar deep voice.

Olivia peered out the window, setting aside the head of lettuce she was about to rip apart. A thirtysomething woman was elbowing Carson out of her way, jockeying for position in front of him at the food-truck window. Carson moved behind the sourpuss, who was busily texting so fast, with such fury on her face, that Olivia was surprised the phone didn’t explode from the sparks.

“May I help you?” Olivia asked the woman. She glanced past the woman at Carson. He wore cop-like sunglasses and his leather jacket.

No response.

Olivia cleared her throat. “Next!” she called out, which always woke people up.

“Meatball-parm po’boy with extra parm,” the woman grunted without looking up from her phone. “And two mini cannoli, one chocolate with chocolate chips on the ends and one peanut butter.”

There was anxiety under the woman’s anger, Olivia knew suddenly. Someone close to her—a boss? A teenager?—was driving her insane.

“Do you want me to take the test for him?” the woman screeched at the phone, shaking her head. She seemed to be yelling at a text she’d received. “Never get married,” she said to Olivia, fury on her face. “Then you’ll never have to deal with an idiot ex-husband who blames you for your fifteen-year-old’s F in chemistry and D in Algebra Two.”

Olivia tried for a commiserating smile. “Your order is coming right up,” she said, heating the meatballs in the sauté pan. She scooped them out onto the baguette and layered the sauce—her aunt Sarah’s old recipe—and then added the Parmesan cheese, then another layer, per the request. She could feel a shift in the air around the po’boy and knew her abilities were at work. Exactly how the woman would be affected was a mystery.

Olivia handed over the order in a serving wedge and the woman stalked over to the pub table a few feet away.

“She practically ran me over since her face was glued to her phone,” Carson said, stepping up to the window. “She even stepped on my feet with those clodhopper cowboy boots.”

Olivia smiled. “How are your toes?” She bit her lip. Was she flirting? She didn’t want to flirt with Carson Ford.

He smiled back. “They’ll survive.”

“Oh, God,” the grumpy woman said from her table. She held up the po’boy and examined it, taking another bite, letting the Parmesan cheese stretch high in the air before gobbling it up. “Oh, my God, this is good.” She inhaled the rest of her po’boy, then sipped her water and took a very deep breath, exhaling as though she was meditating. She held up one of the cannoli. “This almost looks too pretty to eat, doesn’t it?” she said cheerfully to Carson.

“It looks very edible, actually,” he said.

The woman laughed as though that was hilarious. She took a giant bite of the chocolate cannoli. Then a bite of the peanut-butter one. “Scrumptious. Absolutely scrumptious!” She grabbed her phone and pressed in numbers. “Donald Peachley, please. I don’t care that he’s in a meeting. Tell him it’s an emergency.” Olivia eyed Carson. “Donald, your ex-wife here. I have an idea. Let’s get DJ a tutor and we’ll split the cost. Since I make twenty percent more than you, I’m even willing to pay twenty percent more...Great...Bye now.” She then popped the rest of the chocolate cannoli in her mouth, quickly followed by the peanut-butter one.

Olivia smiled at Carson. An innocent smile. An I-told-you smile.

“Excuse me,” Carson said to the woman. “But I’m curious about something. You seemed very upset five minutes ago. But you came up with a good solution to your problem and handled it very well,” he said in a fishing tone.

“Well, I know what a cheapskate tab-keeper my ex is, so I figured if I offered to pay a little more for the tutor he’d go for it. It’s funny, though—before lunch I never would have been so...reasonable or generous. I’ve been accused of being my own worst enemy. Can you believe that?”

Carson didn’t answer that. “So you probably had low blood sugar, had some food and felt better, which got you thinking clearly.”

“Low blood sugar? I had two slices of pizza at Pizzateria ten minutes before I came over here. When I’m furious, I eat.”

Carson scowled.

“Something about these cannoli always peps me up,” she said. She glanced at her phone. “Back to the grind. See y’all.”

Carson crossed his arms over his chest. “People like cannoli,” he said to Olivia. “It’s a pick-me-up. That’s all there is to it.”

“I agree,” Olivia said. “That’s how I look at it most of the time. Until I start thinking about how my food seems to have such specific effect on people. Then I start to doubt myself as a doubter.”

And the more Carson insisted her gift was malarkey, the more she was forced to acknowledge that it wasn’t. Deep down she’d always known and didn’t want to acknowledge it. But she did have some kind of gift to restore through food.

Except maybe when it came to this man.

“What can I get you?” she asked. “Special today is pulled pork. I have six kinds of sauces. And the cannoli of the day is the peanut-butter cream.”

“I actually came to tell you that I made a decision about my father and the prediction. My dad has business he can’t just blow off this week. Which is crazy because when I was growing up, I would have loved for him to put his personal life before work. Now here I am, insisting he honor his commitments. I’m going to track down his Sarah for him.”

Olivia froze. “You are? I thought the last thing you wanted was for him to find this mystery woman.”

“I’m going to find her for him because I can do it quickly—it’s my job to find people. And when I do find her and he feels absolutely nothing for her, I can prove once and for all that the fortune is a bunch of hooey. We can both get on with our lives.”

Well, that sounded cynical, but everything inside her lit up at the idea of reuniting with her aunt. “So you’ve started the search?” she asked.

“No. I’ll do some research tonight and hit the road tomorrow. I need to make this quick. I have a pending case and people counting on me.”

“I’ll help,” she said. “And come with you to find her.”

“What? Why would you want to do that?”

Olivia took a deep breath. She had to tell him. “Because this green-eyed hairstylist named Sarah with the brush-and-blow-dryer tattoo sounds exactly like my estranged aunt.”

The hazel-green eyes narrowed.

* * *

Disappointment conked him over the head, then fury punched him in the stomach so hard he almost staggered backward.

He stared at Olivia and then turned and stalked away.

“Carson, wait!” she called.

He kept walking, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the lying, swindling Mack women as possible. A daughter, a mother, an aunt. All in cahoots.

“Carson!” she called and he could hear her chasing after him. “Please hear me out!”

He noticed some people stopping on the sidewalks, pausing in their window shopping. Busybodies.

He kept walking. He would not hear her out. There was nothing to hear. Of course she’d said she’d help him find “Sarah.” He had no doubt Olivia Mack knew exactly where her aunt was. This was all probably one great big ruse to make this air of mystery around Sarah’s whereabouts so that his father was pulled in even more. No one wanted what came easily. Damn, they were good at being lying swindlers. They reeled in Edmund Ford and now were playing the game, putting the aunt out of his reach just until the fantasy would take over any issues with reality. At this point, his father was in love with the fantasy. She was his predicted second great love, and that’s all he’d need to know.

“Carson, please!” she called.

He kept walking, the cool February air refreshing against the hot anger spiraling inside him. He’d parked his car on a side street, and when he reached it, he got in and sped off toward Oak Creek.

When he opened the front door of his house, he could smell apple pie in the air. Danny’s sitter had made two pies with her little helper, and he was now napping. He let the sitter know he would be doing some research, then tiptoed into Danny’s room. He watched his son’s chest rise and fall, his own tense shoulders relaxing. Watching his son sleep never failed to relax him.

In his office, he sat down on the brown leather couch and pulled out his cell phone to call his dad and tell him this Sarah person was just Olivia’s aunt and the fortune-teller’s sister. And what a nice parting gift to hook up the family with a wealthy widower.

Cheap shot, Ford, he chastised himself.

He punched in his dad’s cell number.

“Edmund Ford speaking.”

“Dad, I just found out this supposed second great love of yours is the fortune-teller’s sister. Clearly, you’ve been set up.”

“Her sister?” Edmund said.

“Olivia told me the person Madam Miranda described sounds a lot like her estranged aunt. Down to the name, the job, the eye color and the tattoo.”

Silence. His father was a smart man. Clearly he now knew this was a ruse and he probably felt exactly like Carson had on the street—sucker punched upside the head and in the gut.

“That’s great!” Edmund said. “That means we have a last name! Maybe even a Social Security number to help track her down. And a physical description beyond eye color. This is great news.”




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