Kicking her heels aside, Trish walked barefoot over the ice-cold tile. The Jorgens had asked for a runner, but she talked them into leaving the gleaming tile bare. After all, children racing down the stairs and weaving into the living room and out through the dining room could trip on a rug’s edges. Not to mention how much easier it would be to power a riding toy along a smooth, stone surface. She smiled, because even better than fusing opposites was creating a beautiful home that wouldn’t crumble under the blessed bedlam of babies.

Setting the vase on a Grecian-style sofa table and family heirloom the couple received as a wedding present, Trish admired the living room, which was anchored by a Chippendale sofa that had been expertly reupholstered by Tony. She ran her fingertips over the black-and-silver jacquard print and visualized the complementing wingchairs. She’d done good. She always did good when it came to decorating houses. If the rest of her life could be so simple…

Trish wandered to the high-gloss white bookshelves that sandwiched floor-to-ceiling windows, and adjusted Johann and Amanda’s family photos. She tried to concentrate on the gilded frames instead of the sentimental scenes, but Amanda’s pregnancy portrait caught her eye. Ethereal and joyful, the black-and-white photo made Trish’s stomach cramp until, with a tiny growl, she banished the longing and turned her back on the photos. She marched through the living room and into the hallway, determined to reach the pillows and keep her mind focused on work. Self-pity was not acceptable while standing in a home she had decorated from million-dollar top to million-dollar bottom.

Two steps from the plastic bag, her phone vibrated against her hip. She freed the white rectangle from her tunic and grimaced at the caller ID. Her mother. And Trish knew exactly why she was calling.

“I haven’t talked to Jackson,” Trish said without offering a hello.

“Darling, what are you waiting for? I cannot bear for you to call Aunt Clarise and decline your ‘plus one’ simply because you’ve tossed another eligible man aside. How embarrassing. Call him. Beg him to escort you. It’s the only way.”

Trish turned her head to muffle a groan. “Begging a man to be my escort is embarrassing, too.”

“Pick your poison, dear. It’s either show up alone after RSVP’ing for two, or swallow your pride and grovel to Jackson. Who knows, you might have such a lovely evening he’ll ask you out again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“I don’t want him to ask me out again. We weren’t compatible.”

“Nonsense. He’s successful. You’re successful. He’s handsome. You’re beautiful. Your father likes him. He likes your father. What more could you want?”

Trish’s stomach cramped again. “Mother, I have to go. I’m at Amanda’s house, waiting on a delivery, and then I have to be at Meyer’s.”

“Fine. But, darling, call him…before it’s too late.”

Silence echoed through the empty house as Trish stood frozen in the foyer. She didn’t want to ask Jackson for anything, but she didn’t want to show up to this wedding alone, opening herself up to questions about her relationship status and the pity that went along with being over thirty and single. What to do?

She walked then, returning the phone to her pocket. Maybe she would go alone. It wasn’t like she deserved anyone’s pity.

Her mother was right about one thing—Trish was successful. She was independent and thriving really. If it weren’t for the popcorn popper of genetic unrest going off in her chest, life would be perfect. She snatched the bag of pillows and wondered again if she shouldn’t try to find her biological parents in hopes of calming her restlessness.

A rumble followed by two clangs attracted her attention, and Trish pushed aside sheer curtains for a look outside before opening the front door. A white delivery truck emblazoned with the turquoise-and-black emblem of Trish DeVign Interior Design backed into the governor’s driveway, stopping several feet from the front of her car. She stepped onto the stoop as Angie hopped down from the passenger seat.

“Delivery,” Angie said, stomping her jeans down her legs and then adjusting the cuffs over the tops of her work boots.

Trish appreciated the juxtaposition of traits that made up her best friend. There wasn’t a man in the business as skilled with a circular saw and wood as Angie Corcarelli, but when the girl shed the jeans and boots and slipped into something sleek, she was a knockout. The problem was Angie would just as soon knock out a suitor than flirt with him.

“Hey there,” Trish called, stifling a laugh.

“Hey. You look happy despite two huge project deadlines. What gives? Wait. Don’t tell me you’re going out with Jackson again.” Angie wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Seriously. Don’t tell me that. He was a stiff.”

“I’m not going out with Jackson again.”

“Are you telling me that ’cause I told you to tell me that or are you serious?” She ripped a rubber band off her wrist and stretched her arms behind her head to make a ponytail out of her ebony hair.

“I’m serious.” Trish heard the cargo door roll up, and she walked toward the back of the truck, eager for a glimpse at the goods.

“Then why were you smiling?”

“No real reason. I’d been talking to my mother, which so did not make me smile and…”

Tony jumped off the tailgate.

Gone was the $800 suit, and in its place was his “uniform” of black T-shirt and threadbare jeans, both of which clung to his well-sculptured body like frosting to cake. Yum.

“Hey, Boss Lady. I got something for ya.” He grinned. “Where do ya want it?”

A million indecent answers jockeyed for space in Trish’s head.

“Where do you think she wants two wingchairs, jackass?” Angie jumped onto the tailgate and released the ramp lock. “Move so we can get this done. I have better things to do than play delivery girl.”

Tony shook his head. “You’re lucky years of abuse from you Corcarelli women have worn me down. I take orders so well I don’t even argue.” Rather than walk up the ramp, he pressed his palms to the tailgate and with a flex of his glorious forearms and biceps, lifted himself into the truck.

Trish held in a whimper and distracted herself with Angie and Tony’s bickering. She’d known them long enough to know it was all in fun. Sure, they grated on each other’s nerves, but when it came down to it, they loved each other, because they were made of the same parts. She suspected love like that felt different than any love she’d ever known.

“Watch your step, Ange. Slow and easy,” Tony called.

As they maneuvered down the ramp, Trish tried to focus on the black plastic covering the furniture, hoping for a peek at what was underneath. But as Tony passed, she noticed what was underneath his shirt sleeve instead.

Tattooed Italian words circled his lean, chiseled bicep. Each letter rode the swell of muscles as he hoisted the chair. She wondered what the words meant, and she stared harder, trying to pronounce them in her head, only to find herself wondering what it would feel like to have those muscles contracting beneath her hand.

“The door,” Angie yelled.

Crap. “Yep.” Trish scrambled ahead of them to open the front door.

Angie brushed by first. Then Tony, and as he did, he looked at Trish and smiled. “You’re gonna like what you see.”

Trish watched him walk down the hall, his blue jeans slinging low across his hips. Yeah, she liked what she saw—a lot more than she should. Talk about a waste of time. The man was nowhere near father material. If she wanted to have fun and forget about her little lists and ticking biological clock, then Tony was her man, but…

“Are you waiting for a big reveal?” Angie called from the other room. “Get in here.”

Trish blinked, realizing she was still standing in the foyer, door open wide along with her mouth. “I’m coming,” she said, rushing down the hall, shaking her head.

She’d always been hyper-focused on her goals and single-minded when it came to achieving them, but this recent uptick in time spent dwelling on children was taking its toll. She didn’t need to be worried about babies and baby daddies. She needed to be worried about finishing the Jorgen’s home before they returned from Sweden, and finding a replacement date for her cousin’s wedding. She could be happy without a baby. She was happy without a baby.

Get a grip, she thought as she turned the corner and walked into the living room. But any chance of that evaporated when she saw Tony sitting cross-legged in the wingchair.

“So?” He grinned, propping his elbows on the shimmering, striped fabric, showing off the large star and vines tattooed on the underside of his forearm. “You like?”

God, she smiled, because there was something about the man that made her giddy. Aside from the beautiful face and delicious body, there was this aura that drew her in and wrapped her up in a blanket of happiness she wished she could take with her wherever she went.

The chair was nice, too.

“Hurry up. Let’s get the other one.” Angie clomped out of the room.

Tony stood, still smiling, and turned to the chair. “Personally, I think it’s some of my best work.”

“Me too.” Trish stood beside him, breathing in warm air with a hint of woodsy cologne. She imagined sweat from the labor diluted the scent, and she wondered what he smelled like the night of Nonna’s party, when he was impeccably dressed. She snapped her head to look at him, imagining him in that suit again. “Would you…?” But her mouth slammed shut before the rest of the stupid idea escaped.