Love by Design. Lisa Watson

I… You mean the world to me. I don’t want to lose you.”

      “You won’t,” she said softly. “Promise me you’ll keep in touch.”

      “I promise, Dakota. Don’t worry, I’ll be home before you know it.”

      “You’d better,” she choked out.

      He glanced at her a final time before sliding behind the wheel and driving off. Logan did not look back. There was no way he could bear the devastated look on her face. Besides, his expression mirrored it perfectly.

      Logan gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. The sheer weight of family responsibility rested on his shoulders. He would bear it. He had no choice. The entire ride home, he willed his heart not to break under the pressure of his unrequited love for Dakota.

       Dream’s over, Montague. She’s gone, and you’ve blown it.

       Chapter 1

      Ten years later…

      That old letch should’ve been grateful that all I dropped over his bald head was a tureen of minestrone. It should have been a brick!

      Dakota Carson was still steaming about the previous evening’s turn of events. If someone would have told her that her perfect day would end with her pouring a bowl of hot soup on a business colleague and threatening him with bodily harm, she would have thought them insane. But it occurred nonetheless.

      Roger Thompson had leveraged their business dinner into a ploy to get her into bed. Dakota accepted the dinner meeting because he had something that she wanted—his connection to Amadeus Rothschild, a new designer who specialized in sheets that were elegant and pleasurable to the touch. The fact that he only used a design once made them unique. Since he was the elusive owner of a company called Sheet Music in New England, Dakota had no doubt that he would soon be a household name. The problem was that he only sold his sheets through Roger.

      When her client’s wife, Nancy Janson, had seen a set on display at Thompson’s Textiles, she flipped. She wanted them for her St. Charles, Illinois, bed-and-breakfast, and nothing else would do. Since Roger was local, and Dakota had a good relationship with him, they discussed it over dinner. He promised to supply them for her project, but soon it became evident why an evening appointment was better suited for their discussion. The moment his intentions were clear, she turned him down flat. When Roger refused to take no for an answer, Dakota left money to cover her portion of the bill and bid him good-night. When she walked past him, Roger’s arm ensnared her like a vise grip. His mistake.

      “Release me,” she had demanded.

      “Wait, Dakota. Don’t leave yet. We can come to an arrangement that will benefit both of us. I have what you want, and you have something I want.” Roger had tried to reel her in.

      “I don’t think so,” she had countered smoothly. “In fact, you either remove your hand from my arm right now, or I’ll rip that toupee off your head, and then stomp on it like a Flamenco dancer.”

      He’d complied immediately, but continued to proposition her. That did it. Dakota’s answer to his vile suggestions was to pour soup on his head. Roger’s toupee cascaded off his dome, along with the soup. She’d chuckled. It had been a sight to see.

      “We’re done, Roger. Step through my office door again, and you’ll regret it.”

      Her alarm blared into the silence. Stunned at the offending noise that ricocheted off the walls, Dakota almost bolted from her bed. The memory of Roger and his tumbling hairpiece was pushed aside. She had bigger problems.

      Last night had caused a hiccup in her plans. Roger’s store was a good source of upscale home goods, and he had lots of connections. Now she needed a plan B, and her colleague was now regaled to the Trouser Snake category of people that Dakota had severed all ties with. She knew he would never give up Rothschild’s contact information. She was desperate to make her client happy, but was not about to play games, or to sleep her way into opportunities. She took her career very seriously, and if somebody didn’t like it, that was their misfortune. That went for the few men she had dated, too.

      When Dakota turned on her cell phone, her voice mail icon, email and text message notifications all dinged, buzzed and chirped respectively. Three were from Norma Jean Anderson.

      “Now I know you can’t possibly be so busy that you can’t return my phone calls,” Norma Jean said in one message. “It’s obvious that you’re avoiding m—”

      Delete. Dakota felt no shame.

      “Dakota Carson, I know your grandmother didn’t raise you to—”

      Delete. Again.

      “Girl, if you don’t call me, I’m coming to see you.”

      She pondered that one, then pressed delete.

      Norma Jean and her husband, Heathcliffe, lived a few doors down from her grandparents’ house in Chicago. Since the age of thirteen, Dakota considered Norma Jean the neighborhood mom. The woman knew everyone’s name, brought homemade meals when people were sick and wouldn’t hesitate to give a neighbor whatever she had. Norma Jean had become her rock when she desperately needed someone in her corner, and for that Dakota owed her a lifetime of gratitude. Norma Jean Anderson was an amazing humanitarian. But a horrible matchmaker.

      Dakota loved Norma Jean, affectionately called Ms. Jeannie, to death, and would do anything for her, but the woman was driving her insane. She was more focused on Dakota’s love life than Dakota was, and had been for years. Personal relationships did not work out for Dakota. An occasional date was one thing, but she wasn’t getting serious—with anyone. She learned the hard way long ago that men came and went, but work was constant. She had governed her life by that simple observation, and she wasn’t about to change now.

      * * *

      Logan and his cousin, Adrian Anderson, sat in his aunt’s kitchen eating the most delicious cinnamon roll he had ever tasted. He took a sip of coffee. “Aunt Jeannie,” he said slowly. “I appreciate everything you do for me, but I’m not going out with your bowling mate’s sister’s niece—no matter how many times you ask. Adrian already warned me about her, and as much as I love you, I’m not taking the bait.”

      Indignant, Norma Jean let out a frustrated breath and pinned her son, Adrian, with a withering look. “This is all your fault.”

      “Oh, no, you don’t,” Adrian replied between bites of his breakfast. “You are the one who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. I told you two weeks ago that Logan wasn’t interested in being set up. Apparently, you turned down your hearing aid.”

      “I don’t wear a hearing aid,” she snapped.

      “Well, then you played deaf, because you didn’t listen. He’s been back in town three days, Mom. Let him get acclimated first before you whip out the little black book—or your love-broker encyclopedia.”

      “Watch it,” she replied. Getting up from the table, she started clearing away the dishes. She tried to grab Logan’s, but he batted her hand away. “Well, this is a pickle. It’s already been arranged.”

      Logan regarded her with determined purpose. “Then unarrange it. Aunt Jeannie, I haven’t even unpacked all my boxes yet, so I definitely don’t have time to date. There’s no way I’m wasting two hours of my evening trying to make small talk with a woman I’ve never met, and that I’m not remotely attracted to.”

      “How do you—” Norma Jean stopped and cut her eyes over to Adrian. “You showed him her picture?”

      A wide grin shot across his face. “Yep.”

      “Adrian,” she chided. “Logan deserves happiness, too. Milán is an incredible woman, and an even better daughter-in-law. She’ll